


you are the gazer

by jockeddie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, M/M, adhd4adhd, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27892537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jockeddie/pseuds/jockeddie
Summary: "I think we have a thing. Like a - you know. Me and you. Isn't that right?"Denying it doesn't cross his mind. "Yes," Richie says.-one of those fics where eddie lives in richie's la bachelor pad as if he'd never been anywhere else
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 55
Kudos: 200





	you are the gazer

**Author's Note:**

> hello... 1. im trying a thing where i actually post stuff i write? 2. ch1 is perfectly sfw but the rest is *finger-gun* 3. the title is from molasses by the hush sound

Eddie gets a divorce, which is great. Richie hasn't been here that long and even he knows that one's been long overdue. Eddie moves in with him - maybe sort of in that order.

Even better. The _best._ It's great. Bring in Tony the Tiger.

Richie's cool with it. Richie is having a great fuckin' time st...

He's not staring at Eddie's ass.

Eddie stands up straight and closes the cupboard door. Richie immediately looks back at his plate and pokes his scrambled eggs with his fork like he'd been doing it this whole time. He counts to three, figures it's safe, and looks back up at Eddie.

He's not even paying attention, still pacing the kitchen and waving his arms around. It's fine, _Richard._ Richie uncrosses his legs and crosses them again oppositely.

"Then that fucking asshole handed me an _open_ box of _colorful paperclips_ with a Christmas bow on it because he's a piece of shit idiot. Fucking Blake, who names their kid Blake anyway - are you listening?"

Richie jolts upright. "Yeah, yeah, bastard cheaped out on you." He picks up his coffee mug, takes a swig, and leaves it pressed against his bottom lip as he watches Eddie finally sit at the table across from him. "And he wouldn't know a funny joke if it fucked his mom."

"Neither would you," Eddie snorts, not even bothering to roll his eyes at this point. He mirrors him and sips his water. Setting the glass down, he looks at Richie silently for a moment before breaking into what Richie would describe under duress as a pretty smile. "We haven't done this in a little bit."

"What, trash talk? That's twenty-four sevs, hon." Immediately, Richie pours more hot coffee down his gullet just to stop himself from talking. Not like it matters. All his friends are used to his _Richieisms,_ Eddie especially now that they've lived together a while. If Richie's sensitive to how they interact, he's the only one.

"Just... breakfast together? I missed it, so sue me." Eddie tucks into his food. Doesn't scrutinize him, not like Richie does to himself every waking moment.

A feeling pools in the pit of his stomach where the rest of his howling thoughts live.

It's one thing to know how much he wants this, wants _him_ and the weird domestic bliss they've somehow settled into. To want the sleepy mornings and sporadic lunch dates when they've both got the same hour free and always waiting until they're both home to eat dinner. The thing is that he does. He wants every one of Eddie's days off, because even if they start the day apart, inevitably they will always find each other - Eddie popping his head into Richie's doorway with an invitation, or Richie bored and whining until Eddie gives him the time of day. Whatever they end up doing on any given day, they fill the silence together with arguments - and it's always an argument, especially if they're in agreement - over what music to play on Richie's super expensive but super worth it speakers, the pros and cons of buying organic, if Mothra is cooler than Godzilla, who forgot to replace the paper towel roll. Et cetera and et cetera.

That's one thing. He can _yearn._ It's sort of harder to simply _yearn_ now that he knows Eddie still sounds exactly the way he remembered right when he wakes up and that he'll still pause the movie to point out when the subtitles get a single word wrong. They're grown up now, yet it's everything they always used to have, building back and easily settling into that same old pattern, and Richie wakes up every day hoping he gets to keep it. Hoping for tomorrow for the first time in his fucking life. Supposedly anything feels better than rock bottom, but every day since It died has been better and better exponentially, ad infinitum, end of story, so it's hard to hold it against Richie if selfishly he wants to feel like this forever.

Not that friendship solves any of his problems, but it's nice to be less goddamn alone.

("It's like I don't even want to fall asleep because I'll miss part of tomorrow. Isn't that fucking crazy?"

"Richie," Ben had said softly over the phone. "I know what you mean."

He'd swallowed hard, looked at the ceiling, and said, "Sure.")

Richie gives up on the cold eggs and picks up an orange slice, sticking it in his mouth with the rind out. He cocks his head, a dopey dog, and Eddie bursts into giggles, leaning forward over the table. The acid feeling slips away, playing dead.

They've lived together for about three months and every minute of it has been a delight. No, really. Richie is having the time of his life going to bed every night knowing he's got the one thing he's always wanted, which is, condensed somehow into just a few words, Eddie. Eddie near him.

It's just, well, there's one thing. There's one more thing he wants and it's tied up with about a million other things he wants, and they're all sitting right in front of him trying to make it look like an accident when he kicks him under the table. He's near - he's _touching_ \- and it's never fucking close enough.

He's here, though, and alive, and not in New York anymore. He survived Bowers and the clown, made it out of every sticky situation _laughing,_ and still had the spare guts left over to move across the country.

(Eddie brought up California in a phone call to Richie a little over a month before he actually moved. Eddie said he was sick of being alone in New York, Richie cracked some joke about sheltering him from the cold hard world, and Eddie said he doesn't need anybody to protect him, so fuck you, dick.

"Nah, I know that," Richie had said, cradling his phone between his ear and shoulder. "You've always been the toughest sonofabitch I know by far. You stabbed a guy with a knife you pulled out of your own face and he _died_ from it. Maybe you should come over here and protect little ol' _me!"_

He'd told Eddie a lot of things over the phone to bring him back to him.)

So however long this lasts, until Eddie moves on and leaves Richie in the dust, he'll bite his tongue. He knows better.

Eddie stands and stacks their plates together when they're done eating. "Okay, hotshot, got any big plans today?"

Richie grabs the cups and brings them to the sink. "Um..." He turns the faucet on, carefully rinsing each glass. Turning the water off, he finally responds, "Not sure. Got a meeting in a couple hours so I'm gonna have to blast real soon, but other than that I was thinking I'd hole up in my room and pretend I'm writing. Is that funny or sad? I haven't developed my sense for the thing yet."

It's not that he hates writing. He's pretty sure he's _good_ at it, if somewhat rusty. He used to be good at it. He used to try a lot harder, too, but mostly it's the adjustment to this brand new world he's stepped into where people are actually interested in all the shit he's been hiding this whole time. They want the scoop on the straight misogynist they loved to hate, hate to love, yadda yadda, end scene.

Hell, he'd love to know what's going on with himself, too. If he could watch a 59 minute special on Richie Tozier that'd give him the run-down...

He turns around to grab the rest of the dishes but stops short seeing Eddie standing there with his arms crossed.

"You're writing?"

"Uh, yeah! It's kinda just - it's new! It's not a big deal." Richie shrugs. He's never done it before, but sure.

"Fuck you, it is _too_ a biggie. You didn't tell me about that," Eddie says.

"I did. Right now." Richie continues loading the dishwasher while Eddie gapes at him, hands now resting on the back of his chair. "Buddy, I promise, it's brand spanking new. You are numero uno in hearing this info." You are numero uno in all things.

"No, yeah, sorry, I didn't mean to put you on the spot." He hears Eddie laugh.

"Don't be fuckin' polite to me," Richie grumbles. "'S gross."

"I'll literally smother you in your sleep, you fucking asshole," Eddie replies. "You think you're safe from me? I'm just biding my time."

"See! Was that _so_ goddamned hard?"

Eddie huffs out a sigh and then his voice goes soft. "Shut the fuck up. I'm really proud of you, Rich. That's great."

Richie hums and dips his head in a way that's far too awkward to be a real "thank you" but Eddie doesn't push it.

Finished cleaning up the kitchen, he washes his hands. Before Eddie moved in, Richie pictured him having some insanely high cleanliness standard. To a certain degree, yeah, maybe that's true. The first time Eddie saw Richie brush crumbs on the floor, his eye kinda... twitched, and his jaw clenched, and Richie froze like a deer in headlights, but that was it. Eddie didn't go off about crumbs attracting ants attracting mice attracting cats attracting wolves attracting dinosaurs attracting meteors or whatever the fuck was going through his mind.

Instead, he relaxed all of a sudden, and they both learned something that day. The lesson was, of course, they could at least try to meet halfway, something Richie's never wanted to do for another person in his life until now... so when Richie cleans, Eddie lets him. That's the deal. He does secretly admit the crumbs thing was pretty stupid, though, like, the trash was right there, Richard.

"About time, right?" Richie finally says, far too late. "Geez... anyway, I better get going."

He gets home several hours later, but it's late afternoon by the time Eddie knocks on his door. He hits save on his Word doc and spins his chair to face the open door.

"What's shakin', bacon?" he calls.

"Not your best," Eddie says, poking his head in. "I think that counts as plagiarism in some states. Don't tell me the rest of your set is like that."

"Nope, that was special just for my Eddie Spaghetti. Rest is waaay worse."

Eddie opens the door wider and slips into the room. He's got his open laptop in one hand, cradled against his body.

"Bacon doesn't go with spaghetti." But hey, he's smiling!

"Bacon goes with everything, dude, like I don't know who lied to you about that but they don't know shit. Stick with me, keed. I'll teach you all kinds of things." Richie wiggles his eyebrows just for the laugh it pulls from Eddie. "Whatcha got there?"

"Oh, um, I was just catching up on some work so I'm gonna hang out in here."

Barging in: a classic Eddie Kaspbrak move. Richie's heart aches.

"What the hell are you working on Sunday for?" he says instead of putting up a fight like a normal person.

"Ditto for you." Eddie almost sounds offended, which is par for the course with him. Maybe he's self-conscious about doing nothing while Richie works? Asshole doesn't know how to take a break, if you ask Richie.

"I don't abide by the rules of a normal-functioning society," he says dismissively. "And what the fuck is a Father Time? Can you even name five of his songs? Didn't think so. Sunday's Wednesday for all I know. But yeah, I don't give a shit, make yourself comfy." He gestures at his bed, the only place to sit that isn't at his desk (occupied) or the floor (unacceptable.)

Eddie does, in fact, make himself comfortable. He looks all too cozy with his back against Richie's pillows and his socked feet tucked under his laptop. Richie catches himself looking too much and has to turn back around to face his blinking cursor again. It's not like staring into the sun, or whatever it is people say; it's like a mirage. The long, lonely trek into the unknown, desert sun and bright sand sapping away any and all moisture, and finally when you've just started giving up, an oasis in the distan-

No, fuck that. Eddie's just a person. An unfairly attractive one currently in his bed, but a person regardless, and he's probably (definitely) his best friend in the whole world (he is), so that's worse than over the top. Richie hits backspace a couple billion times and scrolls back to the top of the section. He rereads it from the start, trying to get back into whatever he was saying before Eddie's, like, fuckin' hair falling over his forehead mugged his attention span and left it for dead.

But Jesus, that scar really works for him. Not his fault for noticing.

They both actually sit quietly and work for a while. Mark it on your calendars - nothing explosive happened between them for at least an hour.

However.

It's in the middle of a really embarrassing story about Bill and his editor that Richie breaks the silence. "Hey, Eddie, what's a word for, um... 'couldn't care less?'" He could just Google it, but then he'd get distracted in a new tab, and-

"What am I, fucking Thesaurus dot com?" Eddie immediately snaps back.

There we go. "Don't sass me, mister, I just need your big ol' brain to chip in here. Do that again, but this time be funny _for_ me."

He hears what may possibly be Eddie's head hitting the wall.

"Okay, how about, um, apathetic. Or neutral. Are those words your audience will believe you know?"

"Fuck, I dunno, I'm clearly braindead." Richie rubs his eyes under his glasses. "Thanks. I love you," he adds.

Eddie doesn't respond for a few moments. Richie doesn't even notice; he's already right back into what he was typing.

"Oh," Eddie says finally. "I love you, Rich," and Richie's brain catches on to what just happened.

His stomach twists, but. But it's fine. Seriously, it's not like he's never told or been told those words before. He's 40 years old, for crying out loud. He said it back, and people say that to each other all the time. Platonic people - people who got into detention together because neither of them could shut up in school, people who moved across the country to live together, people who killed a space clown together. Obviously he loves Eddie. Obviously. And he should know! Eddie deserves to be appreciated and be told his platonic friend platonically loves him.

He doesn't. It's deeper than that, more than their sandbox alliance, more than their adult friendship, more than boys who almost died and killed together. He loved him through not knowing him. He wanted to see him even when seeing him would have meant nothing to him. That's what he doesn't want to say along with the loving. But he does love him. Eddie already knew that.

"Dude, check this out," Eddie interrupts.

He hits save again out of instinct rather than necessity and turns to see Eddie with one earbud in, holding the other.

"Are you fucking around on your laptop when class is in session?" Richie gasps as if scandalized.

"Who's the teacher, your fuckin' DVD collection or your Jason Voorhees Funko Pop? Just get over here." He pulls the earbuds cord from his laptop and carefully winds it up to stick in his pocket.

Bold words from someone whose first purchase on California soil was a Freddy Krueger action figure, but he lets it go. Anyway, he could use a break.

"I think it's funny you actually thought I would be doing work," Eddie says as Richie climbs into bed next to him. "It's Sunday, you fucknut."

"Please explain to me what you think a fucknut is," Richie laughs and elbows him accidentally on purpose.

"You," Eddie says simply.

"A break" ends up being 20-some miscellaneous parkour and stunt videos, apparently, and Richie is dying to get a look at Eddie's YouTube history if that's the kind of shit he not only wastes time on but _enjoys._ Richie himself is having more fun laughing at Eddie boasting he could do that stunt and calling bullshit on another, and they're sitting there on his bed arguing and their arms are pressed together and the laptop is balanced on both their legs... Eddie's head resting on his fucking shoulder.

Could be worse! Couldn't really be better. Well, actually.

"Dude, I'm starving," Richie suddenly realizes.

"Shit, yeah, it's late." They look at each other. "What do you think... takeout?"

"You gotta know I'll never say no to that." Or most anything Eddie asks, but that's neither here nor there. If pressed, this conversation never happened.

They end up back in Richie's room a while later, this time avec food, because Eddie "wanted to finish watching the video."

"You're not gonna yell at me for eating in bed?"

"That's why we're in your room," Eddie says.

Richie cracks up at that. "You're such a dick." Sure thing, but it's never stopped him wanting to be The Other Mr. Kaspbrak and wake up next to him every single day forever until he dies. Both of these things have always been true.

He looks away and hits the play button.

So Eddie's gay.

That's not a joke or a bit or a - he's actually gay.

"I'm actually gay," Eddie says.

See? Straight (ha) from the horse's mouth.

Richie opens his, and then closes it. He keeps his eyes on the road and hands on the wheel.

"I didn't mean to hide it for so long, but... there it is."

Eddie fiddles with the vent on his side of the car. He ambushed Richie with this info - guh, it's not ambushing, he's not _trapped_ \- on the hour drive up to Bill's house for the Losers' Christmas-Hanukkah "excuse to meet up because scheduling among 7+ adults is impossible" winter party.

Richie chews at his bottom lip. Huh.

"Got any thoughts on that?" Eddie asks.

Thoughts, does he have any _fucking THOUGHTS?!_

"Weeell, I'd fist-bump you, but you bit my head off when I tried changing the volume."

"That's because there's a button on the wheel so you-"

"I don't even know where it is-"

"-don't have to take your hands off-"

"Eddie!" Richie drums his fingers on the steering wheel and Eddie goes uncharacteristically quiet. He takes a deep breath, trying to put together a rational and reasonable reaction to Eddie coming out to him. In the car. Where he can't even, like... pace.

It's like pulling teeth, except they're his own. "That's really great. Thanks for sharing."

"'Thanks for sharing?'" Eddie repeats, and Richie can see him turn his way from the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, you know. Cool." Richie clears his throat twice because the first try didn't help. "Gay rights?"

"Alright, yeah, God forbid I think you'll take anything seriously. At least you're not joking about my wife." Eddie sighs deeply.

"Dude, I really do not wanna talk about your heterosexual wife, man. If you want me to make jokes about sucking dick, I'm your man." He feels fucking queasy again. "The other shit, that's not really me. I don't especially think you being gay makes her the butt of a joke."

"Okay," Eddie says slowly.

"I think that would be kinda fucked up. Like her karmic punishment for being wrong for you is you secretly being gay? You're your own person, dude. Fucked up, right? And yes, that's right, children, I have thoughts on what's fucked up. I should know. Gone are the days," he monologues, "of skits about how creepy gay guys are. The new Rich Tozier, first of all, goes by Richie, thanks, and secondly _is_ a creepy gay guy."

"You're not a creep," is what Eddie takes out of that.

"I-" Richie pauses. "It just fits the rhythm. Didn't mean no-thang by it."

Eddie hums shortly.

"Sorry for the. You know. Microaggressions, I guess?" Richie says, and it just makes Eddie laugh.

He already knew all that, naturally. Pretty hard to forget Richie's semi-coward's literal way out via group chat text message before they even entertained thoughts of Eddie moving in. If that had somehow escaped his memory, a quick Google search pulls up thousands of reactions to his coming out video (an interview with a very lovely lady Richie can't remember the name of off the top of his head but is grateful to) ranging from homophobic Tweets to "yas queen" Tweets that still feel vaguely homophobic for some reason, from gossip articles using uncredited Tumblr gifs of him to a very problematic Snopes page. The common theme here is, of course, Richie doesn't say it _to_ Eddie, per se.

It's a little safer in his own head when they don't talk about it.

"Third of all," and here Richie takes his right hand off the wheel and reaches over to crank the volume, "new me sings at the top of his lungs to ABBA."

"That's still old you," Eddie shouts to be heard over the song.

"Can't hear you, Eduardo, _you know what I mean, voulez-vouz, AH-HA!"_

What Richie's feeling now, that's called "excitement." It's the first time he gets to see most of his friends since the gang got together, and this time it's not going to end with things he'd rather not rehash on almost-Christmas, or ever. He gets to meet Audra, who's been in England, for probably the only time, and Patty, who he's been dying to finally have an excuse to talk to.

He shuts the door and leans against it, groaning.

"You know, I could have driven," Eddie says for what's either the second or third time; Richie hasn't been keeping track. "Traffic wasn't even that bad."

"The traffic wasn't bad because I made you put your audiobook on," Richie says. He locks the car and they walk up the drive to Bill's sprawling mansion. Okay, it's a house, but it's three stories and the driveway is well over large enough to fit more than just the four parked cars. For comparison, Richie lives in an apartment and parks next to strangers like a chump.

Bill gets the door and yells Richie's name as soon as he sees them. He grabs Richie and pulls him into the house for a rough hug. Then he throws an arm around Eddie and leads him in more gently, saying, "Glad you're here, Eds."

"Special treatment," Richie snorts. "I'm just the trash to Big Bill."

"Want me to treat you special?" Bill asks, eyes wide with acted innocence.

"Who _are_ you," Richie mutters.

A few of the others crowd them at the door, starting with a woman he almost mistakes for Bev who goes in for a handshake from Richie. "Hi, I'm Audra," she says, and Richie will never in a million years understand how Bill ended up with a wife this radiant. "I guess you're the last couple to show up!"

"Couple?" Richie asks, moving on to squeeze Bev real quick but real tight. "I just met this guy in the airport. Gave me this sob story about hopping on the wrong plane and missing his wife and nine kids on the first day of Hanukkah, I gave him a shoulder to cry on, because my mama raised me good, and the rest is history." He lets go of Bev, and Mike replaces her immediately.

"Still a better love story than Twilight," Mike says, winking at him. Richie playfully shoves his head away while they laugh.

"Shit, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have assumed." Audra's got her hands on Eddie's shoulders and looks very sincerely apologetic about it all. She looks at Bill then and pointedly adds, "I've been out of the loop in a lot."

He'd wonder the same thing in her place, but this is California, baby. You gotta roll with the punches.

Also, what the fuck?

Hello?

"You're fine," Eddie says graciously, "it happens a lot more than you'd think." He doesn't look even remotely put-out by the idea, which soothes Richie before it occurs to him to freak out about it. They really do get mistaken for a couple a lot. Now he's not sure if it's weirder or makes perfect sense why Eddie's never really cared about the misconception.

"Still?" Stan cuts in.

"Fuck you, Stanley," Eddie says.

"Up yours, Edward," Stan replies.

They hug each other tightly, and Stan gives him an extra pat between the shoulder blades when they break apart.

Bill tries offering to get Richie a drink, but he says no.

"I'm _abstaining_ ," he explains in a voice like it's some juicy gossip instead of just some bittersweet update on his silly little life. "Or is it abnegating? Eddie's teaching me big boy words. He does the daily crossword, you know." Okay, Richie finishes the daily crossword, but Eddie starts it.

"What, fucking seriously?" Bill asks incredulously.

" _Yeah_ , Billy," Richie says. "Don't tell me that sounds out of character for him. It's not, I can promise you it's not. Like, he's not good at it, but-"

"No, dipshit, the drinking."

"Right, yeah..." They're in the kitchen now, away from the others. "Yeah, unless tonight goes really badly and I change my mind about wanting to remember it."

Bill gives him a proud smile, the kind he always wanted when they were kids but didn't know how to get. It kinda makes him giddy, to be honest. Makes his little kid heart race a little bit. Bill was always more than just Georgie's older brother.

He throws a smile back and grabs a can of Coke.

Back to mingling with the others, Richie lets his habits from years of being a celebrity kick in. He has nothing specifically to be anxious about, as far as his logical brain can tell, but try telling his brain that. Try meeting people he _really_ wants to make like him and then telling himself to chill out. Consequently, it's easier to shift into his semi-professional persona than to genuinely relax right now.

It's weird when you start caring about stakes.

Anyway, he finally gets to meet Patty in person and she's _tall,_ about his own height standing in her flats, and, like Audra, way out of Stan's league - nope, he just took his cardigan off, turns out Patty's the one that netted an impossible catch. Does Stan the Man _work out?_ He'll have to ask Eddie later for his read on Stan. He seemed to have plenty to say about...

Well now he wants to fight Ben. He's probably his second favorite guy in the world to start shit with. He's beginning to feel a little better by now, if unnerved realizing all his friends work out and he personally has frog arms, and you understand why this naturally means challenging Ben to an arm-wrestling competition.

"Come on, Benny. Give it your best shot." He's holding his arm up, propped on a table and ready to rumble. Or at least ready to construct intricate rituals to touch the skin of other men. That's him!

"Why is it always arm wrestling with you?" Mike laughs good-naturedly. He's rolling his own sleeves up.

He knows Ben let him win and that's the only reason Richie won't duel anyone else tonight, not Eddie for a rematch that he knows he'll win (despite his _heckling),_ not giggling, half-drunk Bev, certainly not Mike or Patty, who, get this, is apparently Stan's _work-out partner?_ Yeah, he's invested in knowing more about that one, too. He wonders how much she can bench-press. He wishes she wore heels.

Richie watches the others dissolve into the chaos he started, setting up their own arm wrestling matches without looking back at him, and in the true spirit of Hanukkmas - wait, shit, it might actually be Chrismukkah - he thinks, "I love these guys so bad." And he hasn't thought that about a group of people in a very, very long time. He's actually happy they're here, yes, for a semi-denominational reason, but 27 years didn't win, and they all still love each other and miss each other, so that fucking space baby from space hell can suck his _di-i-ck._

He hasn't even had anything to drink, just nursing a half can of now-lukewarm pop. "It's gettin' hot in here so take off all your clothes," he sings primarily for his own benefit as he approaches the cute little snack table and rolls his sleeves up. Eddie made him wear a quote unquote _nice shirt_ which for Richie means a maroon button-up he forgot he had that Eddie ironed twice because Richie pretended he doesn't know how to use an iron.

"Dude, are you serious right now? Are you twelve? Are you fucking twelve years old?"

Richie shoves the chip in his mouth and chews with his mouth open. "Baby, I hope not."

Eddie's staring at him looking openly nauseated.

"The MythBusters said it wasn't a big deal," Richie said. "You _have_ heard of them, yes?"

"It's a big deal to me," Eddie says, gritting his teeth. "There are still germs you pass on to the-"

"Double-dipping doesn't pass more germs than single-dipping. Watch the episode, man." Richie goes in for another chip and mercifully single-dips this time. He's growing as a person, you see.

"I have, and it didn't make me feel any better."

"Cold hard science didn't make you feel better?"

"No! Why would it! Now I have to think about single-dipping germs! Did you think it would make me feel better or are you just being an asshole on purpose?"

"I'm just..." Richie licks salt from his thumb. "I'm just eating chips. I don't know anything, officer, I swear."

Eddie looks at him, frowns, and grabs his own chip to dip. He shoves the whole thing in his mouth. Chewing, he says, "Okay, I'm better now. See how not angry I am at you."

Bill announces it's dinner time, thus saving Richie from Eddie, microbes, and so on and so forth.

Richie has to save himself from Eddie halfway through dinner because seeing him across the table, candlelit and a little flushed with alcohol, cute in his little sweater, laughing with Ben and Patty... It's a lot. He's in love with Eddie and he's fucked.

He quietly slips off to the bathroom. The first thing he does after shutting the door is undo his top couple of buttons, then he sets his glasses on the counter and splashes his face with water.

He presses his fingers to his eyelids and leaves them there. "He doesn't fucking want you, dude," he mutters to himself. That doesn't make him feel better. He should probably work on that, the whole choosing his words carefully to make people feel better… thing. Even if it's just to himself. But not right now. Right now, he's about to have a panic attack in Bill's guest bathroom.

But it's true, isn't it?

"Get a grip on yourself," he continues. "Fucking idiot, he's barely divorced, and there's no way he'd want you anyway."

That's always been true.

Eddie smiling at him and kicking at his feet under the table, all the while being overly aware of the fact he's the one taking Eddie home tonight, it's all playing a trick on his mind to make him suffer.

Oh, and Eddie's g-a-y. Did you think he forgot?

"Wish I _could_ forget about that right now," Richie says.

He moves his hands down over his mouth, groans into them, and puts his glasses back on.

After dinner, his friends all split up to play board games in the living room because they're "Booooring," Richie yells, and Audra turns the TV on. She switches it to a channel that's playing _Elf_. It's the scene that includes Will Ferrell being too tall to fit in the shower.

Bev snorts and says, "Look, Mikey, it's you."

Eddie has been giving undivided attention to each one of their friends all night, and apparently it's Richie's turn. He's got possibly his third glass of wine in one hand and Richie's forearm in the other. He drags him over to the couch and whatever defensive thing Richie was going to say about how he's _also_ tall flies right out of his brain because Eddie sits in the corner and pulls Richie down with him. They're close, way closer than they'd been all night, pressed right up against each other. Richie wishes he couldn't fucking see or hear or whatever else the other senses are.

He should say something funny about this. Something like Eddie would fit right in at the North Pole? Or… uh.

Eddie keeps his hand wrapped around Richie's arm and sets the glass on the table beside him. He calls Patty and Audra over, holding up a deck of cards from his pocket. The women approach and sit near them around the coffee table, Patty in an armchair and Audra cross-legged on the floor.

"Wanna play?" Eddie asks. Finally lets go of Richie to shuffle the cards, and - aw, he's not very good at it. He fucks up and gets several of the cards facing the wrong direction.

"Gimme those," Richie sighs. He deftly fixes the cards in a matter of seconds and shuffles the deck properly.

"What the fuck, you dick," Eddie protests weakly. "Stop being good at things."

"Spaghetti." He turns to meet Eddie's eyes. "I will not."

Patty giggles into her wine glass. "There you go, Eddie, can't argue with that."

Richie tips his fake hat to her. "Thank you kindly, ma'am. So what are we hankering to play on this fine night?"

"Not poker," Audra chimes in.

"Not poker," Richie repeats. "That would dampen my holiday cheer, as well." Too many nights in his early 20s hustling poker for rent money - _so_ 2000 and late. He points at Patty with the deck. "Suggestions?"

"I know this card game called Bullshit," Patty says excitedly. "Have you ever played it?"

"Sounds like his kind of game," Eddie says casually.

Richie turns to catch sight of the stupid little smirk. "Fuck you, I have never lied in my life." He pauses for tension. "Except lying with your _mothe_ \- _arghh._ " Eddie pulls him into a headlock, not even letting him finish.

Even after he stops actively trying to suffocate Richie, he leaves his arm around his shoulders, which takes it a sharp turn into what Richie would not describe as snuggling, because to describe it would mean admitting it happened at all and he's not into that. Patty explains the rules with Eddie tucked around him like that, not even bothering to question it, and they get through a round without killing each other.

By now, Bill and Stan have both come over to see what's going on, and Richie taps out of the next round to watch them play. What's surprising is when Eddie also declines a hand of cards.

"Are you a sore loser, Eds?" Richie teases. He does look a little grumpy. Audra won, of course, because she's beautiful and brilliant and _devious._ Later, when he's not himself a sore loser, he'll laugh about how he lost a game called Bullshit.

Eddie's holding his near-empty glass in both his hands. At some point, he'd folded his legs up so his feet are under him, one knee leaning heavily, familiarly against Richie's. He looks at him with heavy-lidded eyes and says, "You know I am."

"Yeah, I do." He's still teasing, grinning, hopefully not flirting.

"I'm just… I'm a little worn out," Eddie continues, rubbing the soft sleeve of his sweater like he's cold, except it's still so hot in the living room. It's almost stifling to Richie.

He puts a hand on Eddie's knee (oh, fuck, surely _that_ tips the scale-) and squeezes. "No big thang."

He must be more intoxicated than he thought, because Eddie actually laughs at that.

"Hey, remember that time you fell asleep in the clubhouse and Ben tried to draw on your face but everyone wouldn't stop laughing and woke you up?" Eddie says, still laughing as he recounts the story. Richie finally notices the slight slurring of his voice. "And then you knocked us both out of the hammock."

And of course he remembers the hammock, the bane of his existence yet also the single greatest invention in his teenaged mind. Where all of his hopes and dreams converged as the worst torture known to man… yadda yadda.

"Shit, dude, I forgot about that," he says instead. "I couldn't believe my eyes. Who would suspect innocent little Benji? Man, I thought you were gonna kill me for that."

"I wasn't _that_ mad." Eddie rubs his eyes.

"Y-" Richie sits up a little, gaping at him. "You were screaming at me. Your face was _red_."

Eddie scowls at this. "I wasn't angry, I had anxiety. Dude. I've like, never been mad at you."

And isn't that a thing he always appreciated a great deal about Eddie? His temper exploding like a firework, but any anger fading just as fast. Richie always knew just what buttons to press to make him go off, but it never lasted and they were right back to chumming around like nothing had happened.

Eddie's not done. He looks strangely serious, honed in on Richie and noticing nothing else. Doesn't see Bev in Ben's lap talking with him and Patty, Stan now playing cards with Mike and Audra, or Bill headed back out of the kitchen with another bottle of wine. Just him. "I loved you, Rich. You know that, right? I still - you know, right?"

And Richie doesn't, exactly. "Doesn't mean I wasn't annoying as shit, though."

"For fuck's sake. I didn't think you were annoying."

What about now? "That's news to me." Don't think about now. Richie looks away.

Eddie just looks - sad. He shifts and lays his head on Richie's shoulder. "I'm drunk," he says, "so I'm allowed to do this."

Richie once again wants to sink into the earth and choke on lava. "Both of those things are true, but I don't think the correlation is as cut-and-dried as you think, pal."

"Yeah it is," he insists.

Richie waits for him to say more, make whatever point he was getting at, but he actually falls asleep like that. 

A couple people have noticed by now, but thankfully say nothing. He does see Mike hiding a soft smile, but pretends he didn't notice. Bill, though. Bill turns their way and asks Richie, "Rethink that drink yet?"

He thinks Bev might have taken a picture.

"I have to drive home," Richie says quietly.

"You can stay over, you know." Bill smirks a little and leans back in his armchair. "I've got rooms to spare. Though you might only need the one."

Bill knows. "Denbrough, if you think I have the patience or- or fortitude for this shit right now…" Bill knows. He doesn't finish his sentence. Bill knows.

Bill holds his hands up in a Don't Shoot kind of gesture. "I'm gently and lovingly ribbing you on Christmas Eve." He looks down and gives Eddie a much nicer smile. "That's what your family is supposed to do."

Richie's _family._

Eddie only passes out for about 20 minutes. He doesn't dislodge himself from Richie when he wakes up, though; he actually clings a little tighter, because Richie tries to stand up once Eddie makes it known he's awake. He holds Richie back with a mumbled "fuck you."

"Come on, Eds, maybe we should get home." It's only about 9pm, but they'd been there for hours already. Richie slaps Eddie's shoulder and rubs it roughly.

"Home?" This wakes Eddie up enough so he finally sits upright all by himself.

"Yeah, drunky, where we _live_." Richie pockets his phone, which he'd been playing on off and on while his previous entertainment was preoccupied. Then he stands, stretches in a way he hopes is subtle, and moves in front of Eddie. "Up and at 'em."

"I shouldn't drive," Eddie protests, going easily as Richie pulls him up into standing. "I'm too tired to drive."

"Don't you worry about that, little guy."

They're standing so close now. Eddie tucks his face against Richie's chest and normally he'd never be able to comfortably put his chin on the top of Eddie's head while standing, despite Richie's jokes on the matter, but he's standing rigidly, spine straighter than ever, and Eddie is. Well. Making an effort.

"Who are you calling little. Fuck you…"

Richie rests his hands at a nice, chaperone-approved shoulder level. "You're so fuckin' weird," he mutters. He drags him over to the front door and drops him down on Bill's stupid little rich suburban shoe bench. He sits back on his heels, picks up a random shoe, and asks, "Is this yours?"

Eddie shoves weakly at his shoulder. "No, dummy."

"Are you gonna tell me which one is yours?" Richie grins up at him.

"Mm… no. Figure it out." Eddie kicks his feet out and rests them on Richie's thigh.

Richie stops to laugh into his own arm. Christ, he's in love with this man. He holds up what's clearly Stan's loafer and says, "It's gotta be this one, right?"

"You're such a bitch." Eddie's laughter folds him in half, and his toes dig into Richie's leg.

In the mess of shoes near the door, Richie sees a pair of heels and immediately looks away. That's not happening. He can't even do that one as a joke. He grabs Eddie's shoes - of course he knows what Eddie's shoes look like - and turns back to his platonic adult friend.

"Okay. Shoes," he says simply.

Eddie doesn't move to take them, let alone put them on. He just raises his eyebrows at Richie.

"And you call me a bitch," Richie grouses. He grabs one of Eddie's skinny ankles, cupping the heel. "I'm gonna put the wrong shoe on the right foot."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"It's like when you meet the right someone at the wrong time. Keep up, spaghetti man."

He gets the shoes on the correct feet with no more trouble, as Eddie is subdued enough not to put up a fight. He has an almost delirious fantasy the whole time of Cinderella leaving the party without her glass slipper. Then he gets up, leaves Eddie on the bench, and goes back to the living room.

Bill and Mike are standing together talking near the doorway. They both turn to him when he comes in and go silent.

"You guys leaving?" Bill asks. His gaze shifts to Richie's side, where Eddie appears. "I meant it when I said you guys can stay."

Everyone else has a hotel nearby, so Richie has the farthest to drive tonight. That's why he doesn't mind being the first to leave. "No, I better get this one home."

" _What_ one, one of what?" Eddie sounds so cute. Richie hopes his own ears burn off.

"There's only one of you, cutie," Richie says pinching his cheek.

It's less Cinderella now and more a Hallmark movie where the husband drives his drunk wife home. If anything, Eddie would be his h-

His hu-

Never mind.

It's not that he's ever seen a Hallmark movie; he's _conjecturing_. That was another one of Eddie's puzzle words.

Everyone says their goodbyes to them, getting just as many hugs as before, and Richie gets Patty's number while Stan isn't looking, and everything is fine.

In the car, they're a few miles down the road when Eddie finds his water bottle in the cup holder that he specifically put there earlier that day for on the way home.

"Shit, that's so smart of me," he says. "Here. Drink." He holds it out to Richie, who swats it away without looking. "Dude-"

"No, _dude,_ it's for you."

"I didn't bring you water?" He sounds so confused by the idea that he didn't think to plan for Richie.

Richie tries not to laugh at him. "It's for you because you got drunk. You didn't, like, leave me out. Drink your water."

"Oh." He puts it between his thighs and reaches into the glove compartment for Richie's CD book. He flips through it very slowly, taking tiny sips of water as he scrutinizes each individual disc.

"Do you just wanna-"

"Nope."

"You don't like your book?"

"My phone is _dead,_ " Eddie replies impatiently.

"Okay. You wanna fuck up my Spotify recommendations?"

"Oh my fucking God. You can't just- that's so many options. That's every option. We're never-"

"I will literally pay you to just click on any playlist."

"-gonna get any music going, we have to sit through traffic in _silence_."

"No, we- Whatever, just put in that Cranberries CD. It's in the back."

Eddie flips to the back and immediately starts yelling. "Did your mom drop you on your head? I can't listen to Linger today. I will literally fucking pass out."

"We can definitely skip Linger if you want."

"No. It's right in the middle. You can't- how do you skip that. Are you literally insane." He puts in a different CD and sits back with his arms crossed.

Richie doesn't say anything while he listens to the first few notes and then laughs. "Fall Out Boy?"

"I don't know, it had, like, bears?"

"You like bears, Eds?"

"No," Eddie says, shutting the radio off.

Richie turns it back on with the steering wheel button. "I think listening to Folie à Deux builds character!" He can feel Eddie staring at him. He reaches out blindly to pat his thigh. "Not that you need any more."

"Okay, fuck you."

They sit in silence until the song finishes.

"Is this album gonna give me, like. A complex."

Richie laughs so hard he snorts. "No, no, people listen to this to feel normal."

"No, they don't," Eddie grumbles under his breath.

**Author's Note:**

> see U later


End file.
